


Resolve

by sasha_b



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-04 03:04:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1075776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas with Miloe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Resolve

**Author's Note:**

> I have this fantasy that Bass owned a condo near the boy's base and they used it sometimes when they were on leave. This is set around six-nine months before the blackout. Beta'd by me, so all mistakes are mine, and for some reason, this is way more sappy than I usually turn out. Apologies. *gg* Written for the 25 Prompts in 25 Days for LJ community NBC_Revolution.

 

“This year, I resolve to stop drinking so much.”

The lights from the house across the street are perfectly set up; a tree and stars and some sort of design Bass can’t tell what it’s supposed to be. He sits on the couch with the curtains open and stares at the twinkling brightness – the tumbler of scotch in his hand is half empty, as is the bottle at his feet.

“Right,” Miles’ voice floats out of the kitchen. “Just like you resolve to stop cheating when we play poker.”

Miles joins him on the couch, clinks his glass against Bass’, and drinks. They watch the lights together, snow falling gently outside. Bass’ condo is warm and quiet; they’ve turned off the ubiquitous football game and sit in comfortable silence, Christmas day over, bellies full.

“I do _not_ cheat. You just suck, buddy,” Bass stumbles over his words, laughing when he realizes his glass is empty. “Admit it.” He sits forward, forearms on his knees, hand holding his chin as he stares out at the house across the way.

“I won’t. I’m not a liar, liar.” Miles grins and lets the rest of the scotch slide down his throat, warm and heating and he wipes a hand over his forehead. It’s always a bit too warm in Bass’ place – he wonders about that but ignores the way those thoughts lead him. He won’t think about the way things used to be, before the deaths of Bass’ family and before the tours they’d survived.

Parris Island will be there when their leave is over – Miles doesn’t want to go there right now. He loves his job, loves that he’s good at what he does, loves that he has the chance to do it with his best friend and they’re both perfect soldiers. But that life can wait for a few days.

Bass is staring at the window and after a minute, sets his empty drink down and ambles to it, hands raised to rest even with his shoulders against the glass. His baggy black cargo pants and simple tee shirt merge him with the darkness outside, the holiday decoration lights shining around him, his silhouette all Miles can see.

“Bass,” Miles queries as he finishes his own drink. “You wanna put another game on?”

The other man doesn’t answer him. Miles licks his lips and shrugs, pouring a bit more scotch and sipping it, slumping on the couch, lights twinkling merrily and his stomach gurgling from too much rich food. Fuck, but the meals at the base are so awful compared to what they’d been able to buy out and make themselves. Too bad holidays only came twice a –

“Bass?”

The other man is leaning against the window, his wild curly hair making weird crunchy noises as he rolls his head back and forth. Miles stands and walks to him, first looking out the window and then over at Bass.

“Shit,” he sighs, and pinches at the bridge of his nose briefly. “It’s okay, man.”

Bass’ closes his eyes and more tears escape. “No, it’s not. I can’t do this again. No more holidays, Miles. Not without them, not alone.” He hiccups and sucks in a breath, the sound snotty and pathetic and Miles shakes his head. He reaches out a hand and wraps it around the back of Bass’ neck – it’s stiff and tight and Miles squeezes gently, the muscles under his hand flexing with his touch.

Miles doesn’t speak. He knows there’s not much he can say when Bass gets like this – he could make the other man watch TV, stop thinking, anything but this – but he stays where he is, hand on Bass’ neck, staring straight ahead. The lights across the street flicker and blink and Bass lets out a sound that twists Miles’ heart in his chest; no matter that he’s known Bass forever, it sucks complete and total ass when he –

“Fuck,” Bass mumbles. He wipes his eyes and shoves away from the window, drawing the curtains, effectively blocking the lights from their eyes and sits back on the couch, picking up the bottle of scotch and filling his abandoned glass. He drinks before Miles can stop him.

“Bass, probably not such a good idea,” Miles sighs as he flops down next to him. Bass stares into his tumbler and rubs at his face with his right hand, the fingers trembling – Miles sighs again, as he can see the other man’s mouth quivering from the corner of his eye.

“Okay, come on,” he says, more gently than he feels, more gently than he expected. Bass sucks down the rest of the scotch and won’t look at him – Miles shakes his head and stands. “Come on, Bass.” He reaches out a hand for the other man and waits. Music wafts from outside; some carolers and Miles doesn’t want them to get to Bass’ condo or ring the damn doorbell before he can get the other man away from the front room.

“No,” Bass snaps and Miles shoots an annoyed grunt through his nose and bends down, snatching at Bass’ shirt and pulling the other man to his feet. “Yes,” he bites off, dragging Bass with him toward the hallway and Bass’ big bedroom and his huge soft bed that only gets used once every few months. Funny enough, Miles thinks it’s only been him and Bass that have used it.

This time will be no exception, but Bass is so drunk at this point Miles really just wants him to lie down and stop thinking, if only for five minutes. Miles doesn’t have the answers – Bass’ pain is something the other man seems to eat like he can’t get enough, the rotting meal of _torn_ rolling though him and over him and it’s all Miles can do to not punch him after he wallows in it for hours. The loss of his family is something Bass will never reconcile with – and Miles doesn’t know how to fix that for him. It sucks like nothing else in this world, and Miles doesn’t know if punching Bass or himself would make him feel better about it. He might try the punching if this doesn’t work.

“Miles,” Bass draws his name out, breathy and drunk. “I don’ wanna go to bed. Wanna drink some more.” He rolls on to the bed and lies on his back, hands covering his face. _Thank fuck,_ because Miles doesn’t think he can look at Bass’ swimming blue eyes and deny him much.

Miles shoves a hand through his hair and then crosses his arms. He watches Bass, the other man wrapped in his misery, the heat of the room almost oppressive.

“Bass, remember when you got this?” Miles sits next to him on the bed and wraps his fingers around Bass’ left arm, right above his “M” tattoo.

The room is dark and close and Bass lowers his hands, eyebrows cocking comically and he shoves up, letting his back rest on the headboard, legs crossing into a square. “’Course. Why?”

“What’s it stand for?”

“Brothers,” he answers, softly, murmuring, his voice drink-rumbly and Miles twitches a smile. “Right. You and me. Always. Right?” He lets his hand slide to Bass’ hand, touching it briefly, then letting go, clasping his fingers in his lap.

“Forever,” Bass says. He tilts his head and his glittering eyes cut through the gloom of the room – Miles notes the curtains here are mostly drawn as well.

“Then trust me to do what’s right for you, yeah?”

“Okay, Miles.”

_Thank God._

“Lie down.”

Bass does, and Miles jerks the other man’s boots off, throwing them to the floor, and when Bass doesn’t protest, he flings a blanket over him, covering him even though the room is warm and humid. Bass hiccups and Miles has to close his eyes; pain’s not ever been something he’s fond of – wait.

_Tell me you love me, and I’ll leave him and wait for you._

_I don’t love you._

He coughs and rubs his eyes in the gloom.

_I got nothing left. I got nothing._

_Well, you’ve got me. I mean, what the hell would I be without you?_

The heater clicks on.

_I’m pregnant, Miles._

_…you are? But -_

_It’s not yours._

He laughs. He thinks of Rachel, and of Bass and Emma and he laughs again, having to sit down on the bed next to Bass’ blanket covered form, his mouth stretched, his sides aching after a few minutes of cracking himself the fuck up. He knows pain too. It could be his damn middle name.

He turns when Bass’ hand touches his lower back, and even though the other man isn’t looking at him or asking for anything, Miles kicks off his own boots and curls up next to his brother and friend and fucking pain – pain is something both of them know too well and maybe that’s why they can stand each other even though they fight and bicker and love each other too much. Even though in the end, it’s just them. Just the two of them, Matheson and Monroe, and Miles shudders briefly without wanting to.

Bass tucks his face into the join of Miles’ neck and shoulder and sucks in one quiet sob.

“Bass.”

Miles says the other man’s name, soft as air, silent thunder echoing through a clear sky.

“Yeah.”

“Don’t.”

Bass doesn’t answer, save to reach up and brush his dry lips briefly over Miles’ temple before he rolls his body flush with Miles’, flinging his right arm over Miles’ middle.

“Just don’t,” Miles says into the darkness.

In the early morning, he turns over, feeling ancient and creeped the hell out after dreams that involved Rachel’s severed head held in Bass’ fists, and finds himself staring into Bass’ open eyes, the sun barely a hint of things to come in the sky. He kicks the blanket off his hot feet and makes a querulous sound, _mmmffshitwha_ about as intelligible as he can get, dirt and tiny storms rattling around his brain, worry for Bass still there along with the rest of the crap.

Suddenly Bass slides down his body and even as Miles opens his mouth to say more clearly _the fuck_ Bass unbuckles his belt and gets his pants undone and takes Miles into his mouth – a searing intimate kiss that has Miles’ hissing a breath and clenching fists into the sheets.

His mouth is dry and he snatches at Bass’ curly hair as he tries not to hurt the other man with his uncontrollable thrusting and he stares up at the ceiling as wet heat surrounds him and it’s all he can do not to scream with the _feeling_ and it’s as if nothing’s changed – they’re in college and nothing bad’s happened to them and they love their lives and each other and suddenly he –

Bass’ hair is tangled in his fingers.

He clamps his lips shut as he comes and thinks _trust me to do what’s right for you_ and a half sound slips out, a murmur of _Bass_ and _fuck_ and the sun bursts through the window, the light filtering through the half closed curtains and it’s like the first fucking sunrise he ever saw.

Bass’ blond hair is haloed by the escaping light, motes of dust floating around his head, and he climbs up Miles’ body and collapses against him, swallowing roughly. There’s no sound save for the heater clicking on and their heavy breathing.

“Jesus,” Miles says finally. Bass smirks and imprints it against Miles’ bicep.

“Merry Christmas.”

Miles stares at the other man before slowly cracking a smile, his laughter barked and bright and Bass joins him, even if it’s a bit rusty and broken sounding.

~


End file.
